Sherlock Holmes and The Adventure of the Ruby Elephants

by Christopher James

  ‘Let us suppose for a moment,’ said Holmes, interrupting. ‘That Mr Wyndham did not murder his butler.’

  ‘May I ask why?’ asked Featherstone. ‘The evidence is clear.’

  ‘On the contrary,’ suggested Holmes. ‘For one, I do not believe that the butler died in his study. The tear in his jacket and shirt revealed a singular detail: the presence of Livor Mortis in the body, which my friend, Dr Watson has confirmed. This peculiar state is characterised by a discolouration of the corpse resulting from the settling of red blood cells. For example, if a body is found on its back, you would find that the back has turned a distasteful red and purple colour. The front of the body would be comparatively pale. If he had died slumped forward, then the discolouration would be found on his front rather than on his back.’

  The manager glared at Holmes, biting the lower part of his lip. I saw his fists slowly clench, then unclench as if he was making an attempt to restrain himself. ‘It occurred to me,’ continued Holmes, ‘that the butler died in another location in the house and was transported here by some means. We have already identified that Mr Brillington is a large man by any ordinary standard and that carrying him would have been difficult for the murderer. We therefore deduce that he was dragged. Along the corridor I found a loose tack protruding from the carpet. Snagged to it, I found this piece of black cloth. I have not yet had an opportunity to test my theory, but I am certain that it will correspond to the missing section of the butler’s tail coat.’

  ‘I don’t care what you found or where he died,’ growled Featherstone. ‘All I know is that Wyndham here is responsible.’

  ‘Featherstone,’ the old man declared, ‘you can consider yourself fired.’ His associate laughed. ‘I haven’t worked for you since we returned from Africa.’

  ‘Whatever do you mean?’

  ‘You heard me,’ snarled Featherstone.

  ‘Gentlemen,’ said Wyndham, ‘if you are the police, I would be grateful if you escort Mr Featherstone from my house.’

  ‘And leave you here alone, blind? As helpless as a child?’

  An atmosphere of violence gripped the room; Featherstone was an intimidating presence but I still believed that if he lost control my friend and I would be able to contain him.

  ‘It is my supposition, Featherstone,’ asserted Holmes, ‘that you have Mr Wyndham here in your power. As his business associate, you have access to his funds and have imprisoned him here in his own home under the delusion that you are still his employee.’

  ‘You know nothing, Holmes,’ growled Featherstone.

  ‘I believe that Mr Brillington stumbled upon a piece of incriminating evidence. Was it a transaction? Was it a conversation? You had no option but to dispose of him. I believe a coroner would confirm that a blunt blow to the head was the cause of death. I’m afraid Featherstone, you have simply invited us to here to witness your own confession. It is clear to me that you intend to frame your former employer for the murder of his butler and steal his fortune. That whiplash across your face was not administered by Wyndham at all. It was the butler’s last desperate act as he tried to defend himself. Even if we didn’t hear it on your lips, the evidence tells the same story.’ Featherstone folded his arms.

  ‘None of you will leave Hixstead alive,’ he said calmly. He pulled a revolver from his pocket before I had time to draw my own.

  ‘That’s enough,’ I said, finally losing my temper. ‘That’s enough!’ I could barely believe the voice was my own. ‘We have half of Scotland Yard on the way, if they’re not already at your front gate. Gregson is one of the Yard’s most brilliant men. You didn’t think we would be foolish enough to accompany you here without an insurance policy?’ I astonished myself with this piece of improvisation.

  ‘You’re bluffing,’ said Featherstone. ‘I’ve got you covered too, Holmes. Drop your weapon.’

  Without taking his eyes from us, he strolled to the door and pulled a chain, connected to some remote part of the house. We heard the distant chime of a bell.

  ‘We have dined very well of late, incidentally,’ Featherstone said. ‘We have acquired two splendid cooks who have raised the standards considerably. The curried lamb and Apricot Charlotte are particular favourites.’

  ‘Mrs Hudson?’ I cried. ‘You have Mrs Hudson here!’

  Four men appeared in the doorway, brooding silently in the shadows. One of them, Raphael, held his arm in a sling; no doubt the victim of the Maharajah’s splendid aim.

  ‘Dr Watson,’ said Michael. ‘I had a feeling we would meet again.’

  ‘We were only beginning to get to know each other,’ added Uriel. ‘Before you disappeared in the middle of the evening. Still, that is of no consequence now.’

  Gabriel fixed my friend with an icy stare. ‘I see that you play draughts as well as chess, Mr Holmes.’

  ‘Well,’ said Featherstone, ‘this is a touching reunion.’

  Suddenly we heard the sound of a violin. My friend listened to a bar or two with the keenest interest.

  ‘It appears we have a houseful,’ said Holmes. ‘Unless I am very much mistaken, that it the sound of Miss Penelope Braithwaite playing a 1724 Stradivarius.’

  ‘You must be referring to my charming fiancée,’ said Featherstone. ‘Perhaps I should ask her to join us? He moved to the door and called for her:

  ‘Penelope, we have some old friends for dinner. Would you care to join us?’

  Ms Braithwaite appeared in the doorway, still holding the priceless instrument, smiling serenely.

  ‘Dr Watson, Sherlock Holmes. What a pleasant surprise.’ She looked as sensational as ever; in a flowing red gown, daringly low cut, her hair trussed in her customary turban. All of this was as nothing beside the necklace that hung about her neck; at its centre was the Timor Ruby. ‘You must be feeling a little envious, Mr Holmes. The violin has a beautiful tone, would you not agree?’

  ‘Quite wonderful,’ said my friend.

  ‘What seems more wonderful,’ said Miss Braithwaite, ‘is that London’s greatest detective not only failed to discover the killer of my teacher, but also failed to notice that I was engaged to the same man who arranged it. How much time did I spend in Baker Street, listening to your muddled thoughts on the affair? I’m afraid your reputation lies in tatters, Mr Holmes.’

  I thought for a moment. Was it true? Was this part of Holmes’ scheme; how much did he know? I knew better than to doubt my friend, but the cards certainly seemed stacked against him.

  ‘Well,’ said Holmes. ‘We appear to be in the lion’s den, Watson. Miss Braithwaite, it disappoints me beyond measure that you are wrapped up in all of this. For you, the motivation was quite simple: an obsession with the Stradivarius. Each week, you could not bear to see it being played by your teacher Ignatius Wimpole. Finally you spoke to your father, Warwick Snitterton and demanded that he secure it for you, at any cost. He introduced you to his associate, Featherstone here, and you developed a further interest. How congenial. Featherstone was only too happy to oblige with the disposal of poor Ignatius. He even involved poor Peaceheart, the weak minded confectioner, to deflect attention away from himself. I must confess you threw me there. I believed Peaceheart acted alone. Snitterton knew that Peaceheart feared him and that he would never turn you in if caught. And all along, Featherstone was obsessed with the diamonds. Watson, would it surprise you to know that Featherstone is also a member of the Order of the Sapphire Butterfly?’

  ‘It had occurred to me,’ I said.

  ‘Together, they hatched their plan to secure the Koh-I-Noor and the Nizam diamond, as well as the Timur Ruby. Quite a list. Not a little greedy, Featherstone?’

  ‘Not especially.’

  ‘As part of the Order of the Sapphire Butterfly, Snitterton was already on the trail of the Nizam. Eight elephants and it would have been his. He told his other associates
that once it was found, the stone would be cut and the spoils divided. But they would never live to receive their share. But there was more than one rival. You knew the Maharajah wanted it too.’

  ‘Tom, what is the meaning of this?’ muttered Wyndham. ‘Is this the truth.’

  ‘Every word of it. And we have almost succeeded too,’ laughed Featherstone. ‘You already know that we stole the Koh-I-Noor from the Queen herself at the Royal Albert Hall. You are the expert in these matters, Holmes, but surely this would rank as one of the most audacious robberies of our age? Gabriel, take a bow. Then there was the matter of the Timur Ruby. That was all too easy. Your own Mrs Hudson took us through the gates of Windsor Castle with her association with Mrs Woodbridge. I would almost go as far as to say they were accessories to the crime. Just think of the headline: “Holmes’ Housekeeper Implicated in Crown Jewel Theft.” You would never have another case so long as you live! But now, that is of course, merely academic.

  ‘That only leaves the Nazim diamond. I am aware that we did not succeed in taking the rubies from you. Macintosh bungled his work and got what he deserved. As we speak Snitterton is paying the Maharajah a visit and I have full confidence that he will return with the stone. Like you, gentlemen, the Maharajah has been a meddlesome distraction. Within a week, I will have every jewel re-cut and on the European market. They will be lost without a trace.’

  ‘You will never get away with this,’ I warned.

  ‘The simple fact of the matter, doctor,’ he said, ‘is that I already have. You have already seen our rather fine collection of art; the National Gallery was foolish enough to allow us to steal a painting a night for almost a month. Naturally Wyndham has bankrolled the operation and he believed we were stealing the paintings for him. The truth of the matter is that the black paint will make them easier to smuggle out of the country. Now, enough of me. Raphael, would you be good enough to fetch the two ladies?’ The Archangel slipped away.

  ‘What of our plans, Tom?’ cried Wyndham.

  ‘What of them?’

  ‘You told me you would give me the Koh-I-Noor; that it would be mine...that I would hold a star in the palm of my hand.’

  ‘Change of plan,’ snapped Featherstone.

  ‘Oh, Mr Holmes!’ cried Mrs Hudson as she appeared in the doorway. ‘Doctor Watson!’

  She was a good deal changed from the formidable woman we knew so well. Her eyes were rheumy with worry and fatigue; her skin had lost its ruddy glow. Mrs Woodbridge, who leaned upon her shoulder looked worse still.

  ‘I told them you would come for us,’ Mrs Hudson said in defiance.

  ‘Some rescue!’ Featherstone scoffed.

  ‘Don’t move, any of you.’

  In the other doorway stood none other than our dear friend, Crabtree. He cut an extraordinary figure. Dressed in his own interpretation of an English country gentleman, he wore an ill-fitting tweed suit, checked shirt and yellow tie. Naturally, he also sported his patent pair of matching monocles. In his hands he brandished quite the oldest rifle I had ever seen.

  ‘And about time too, Crabtree!’ exclaimed Holmes. ‘What took you?’ I knew that my friend was bluffing; even Crabtree looked confused by this statement.

  ‘Good God, man!’ Featherstone exclaimed. ‘When was that gun last used, the Napoleonic wars?’ Crabtree glanced down at the ancient weapon.

  ‘As a matter of fact,’ he said, ‘it was. It was last used in anger by my grandfather at Tolosa.’

  ‘Is this the best you could do, Holmes?’

  ‘You have no idea what you’re dealing with, Featherstone,’ he retorted. ‘Crabtree here is one of the most feared men in London. The Baker rifle he is holding could take a man down at 300 yards. In his jacket pocket he has a pair of Webley Self Extracting Revolvers. You don’t stand a chance. And Scotland Yard is right behind him.’

  Crabtree was just about holding his nerve.

  ‘So what’s your plan, Crabtree?’ asked Featherstone.

  ‘I’ll do the talking,’ returned the optician smartly. ‘Move over there by the badger with the pipe and keep your hands where I can see them.’

  Remarkably, Featherstone did as he was told. ‘You too,’ he cried, seeing one of the Archangels going for his pistol. ‘And you, missy,’ he nodded to Penelope.

  ‘Excellent work, Crabtree,’ complemented Holmes as my friend and I slid over to his side. We pulled our own weapons and the tables it appeared, had entirely turned. The next few moments represented something of a blur. In fact it is difficult to reconstruct the order of events without recourse to a little creative licence, given my own memory of them is now confused by the repeated telling.

  There was an enormous explosion following by a thick cloud of smoke. Presently pieces of stuffed badger began to rain down on our heads and the bowl of the animal’s pipe I saw clip Featherstone on the forehead. At the same time, several more shots were fired.

  ‘Downstairs!’ shouted Holmes and we bolted through the door and down the corridor. We arrived at a huge sweeping staircase with wide marble steps; a musty red carpet running down the middle. Below us we saw what I immediately realised must be the gardener wielding a fearsome hunting rifle. ‘Upstairs,’ shouted Holmes. ‘Go up!’ We raced up the stairs, a giant dome of glass above us. ‘There must be an exit from the roof,’ my friend shouted. Crabtree was struggling to keep up, his shorter legs working twice as hard as our own. His two monocles swung like pendulums. ‘What on Earth are you doing here?’ I demanded.

  ‘I followed you to the station,’ he panted. ‘I caught the 4.24, the same as you!’

  ‘You must have lost your mind!’ I yelled. ‘These men are monsters.’

  ‘But it’s jolly exciting!’ he returned.

  A shot rang past me and cracked straight through the glass roof, a tiny shower of shards falling behind us. Far below now was the chessboard patterned floor and at the centre, a pond of electric eels, the water fizzing and crackling with an ethereal blue light in the gloom.

  We found ourselves in a room at the very top of the house, which was lined with glass cabinets. These in turned were filled with ornate glass jars, punch bowls and exotic pots of all descriptions. At the far end was one of the most stupendous sights I had ever seen: a magnificent throne, seemingly made from solid gold and embedded with gems of every kind. It was rectangular in shape, with a golden canopy supported on twelve gold pillars, each studded with rows of pearls and embedded with rubies. Most remarkably, peacocks of gold and sapphires roosted on the top of the canopy and in pairs at the top of each column.

  ‘Well, well,’ murmured Holmes, stopping short and breaking into a bemused smile. ‘Unless I am very much mistaken this is the lost Peacock Throne, the seat of the ancient Mughal emperors of India.’

  Crabtree stumbled into the room a way behind and gawped.

  ‘Now that’s what I call an armchair!’ he exclaimed.

  ‘Not much good to us now,’ I muttered.

  ‘To the roof!’ shouted Holmes.

  A side door took us out onto a narrow terrace and into a strong breeze. The afternoon was slowly fading and the evening was beginning to mine the first diamonds from the night.

  ‘We seem to spend half our time on rooftops,’ I complained.

  ‘The situation, I grant, may seem perilous,’ my friend began, ‘and I appreciate that you have all endured a spell of some discomfort. However, I promise that we are entering the endgame and that a solution to the present crisis will present itself. “Out of this nettle, danger, we pluck this flower, safety.” As sure as night follows day, there will be another way down.’

  I took Mrs Hudson’s hand, while Crabtree did the same for Mrs Woodbridge. Standing a full foot shorter than her, however, it appeared the lady was caretaking him. In this manner, we followed Holmes around the perimeter of the octagonal roof, as if participating
in some elaborate dance.

  We were not alone for long. From the same door, the Archangels followed, scuttling after us like black beetles. We could see the glint of the blades attached to their canes and already they were taking pot shots at us across the roof, shattering pane after pane in the glass dome. Ducking beneath the shelter of a balustrade, we finally found a defensive position. Holmes and I pulled our revolvers and made an inventory of our ammunition.

  ‘It is hopeless,’ I whispered beneath my breath.

  ‘At first glance, it would seem our position is weak,’ agreed Holmes. ‘However, we have three shots a piece. Enough to take care of each of these villains, with one left over for sport.’ It was an optimistic assessment. Mrs Hudson crouched with clenched fists.

  ‘Let them have it, doctor!’ she urged. ‘They deserve nothing more than a supper of lead this evening.’

  ‘Hear, hear,’ said Mrs Woodbridge. ‘A fussy lot they are, too. Last night they turned their noses up at my marbled blancmanche. The cheek of it!’ Holmes pressed a finger to his lips.

  ‘A challenge!’ he shouted. A shot rang out, followed by another, then the firing ceased.

  ‘If you are men of any honour,’ Holmes cried. ‘Then you will let these women go. What’s more, I challenge each of you in turn to single handed combat. That is, without firearms. I will give you a minute to consider my proposition.’

  ‘As you wish, Holmes,’ returned a voice at last. It belonged to Michael. ‘A foolish notion, but it will provide us with some amusement. I shall be the first to challenge you - and the last.’

  ‘Then step forward with your hands clear and I shall do the same.’

  ‘If there is foul play,’ warned Michael, ‘my friends will make short work of you.’

  ‘Sherlock Holmes does not break his promises,’ he said, giving us a little wink.

  Holmes stepped forward and I saw the Archangel emerge from the shadows. They both stepped forward onto the glass dome, edging along the steel seams that held the panes together. The glass was already pockmarked with holes from our previous exchanges and it seemed the whole thing would give at any time.